There's the River
by aly.lynn122
Summary: Grumpy old ghoul meets non-verbal vault dweller who he can't seem to get rid of, and isn't sure he wants to anymore.
1. Chapter 1

Charon felt heavy. He hadn't slept in weeks, ever since that smoothskin had stolen Ahzrukhal's chem stash, and he'd been sent off into the wastes to scavenge more. He'd been on the move since then, opting to go towards Megaton rather than Rivet City. His employer had ordered him to shoot the smoothskin on sight if he found him, and he'd rather avoid that opportunity, especially in the largest settlement around.

He didn't bother going into Megaton, instead he skirted it and found himself approaching Springvale Elementary, raider paradise. If anyone had chems just laying around for the taking, it was raiders.

Now, with more holes in his hide than he'd like, he was downing bottles of irradiated water in the shade of a large boulder. His pack was half-full with chems, but he wasn't done searching yet. It was rare he got to leave Underworld with any semblance of freedom, usually it was for a short trip. But Ahzrukhal had only told him to go and not come back until he'd managed to replace his employer's supply. Thus, he could stay gone as long as he was able, until the contract forced him back with a pack full of chems.

A sound caught his ear, and Charon turned his ravaged face towards the source of it, dropping his shotgun into his hands as he rose. The shuffling of feet preceded the gasp of a half-hearted sob, and his face tightened at the implication. A female, young, walking haltingly and with difficulty. He rounded the boulder with his shotgun still armed, but lowered to chest rather than eye-level. The sobbing creature at the other end of it froze, looking up at him with wide eyes. She was young, younger than 25 he thought. Her dark skin shone sickly in the sunlight, sweat-glistened chest rising with shaky breaths under her tank top, the bottom of which disappeared into a vault suit secured around her waist. Her pants, bright blue and unfaded, almost burned his retinas with its saturation.

"Who are you?" he growled. He knew there was a vault around here, but from what Charon knew, it had been sealed off for the last twenty some years. There was no denying this girl was a vaultie though. Her deep brown skin was muted, her eyes sunken in, hair a dull, uniform black. She had no highlights in her curls, no shine to her eyes, no healthy pallor in her skin and face. He'd seen similar people before, those who had spent their entire lives underground, never facing the sun. It was easy to read in her small frame and unsure footing on the shifting ground. She stumbled ever so slightly on a rock as she tried to take a step back, shaking her head and raising a neglected 10 mm at him.

"If you are going to shoot me, I would advise against it."

Almost instantaneously, the girl lowered her gun and aimed it at the dirt between them, her wide eyes shining with more unshed tears, and Charon met them with his own steel gaze. She was staring, shaking in his shadow, and he knew that he must look like a thing of nightmares to this sheltered creature. Still, after a moment, she had the decency to look away and blush in shame at her open fear of him. It was the best response he'd gotten from someone who had never seen a ghoul before, and it was enough to make him lower his shotgun. Whatever this kid wanted, it wasn't to hurt him.

"You're bleeding," he said, gesturing to her shoulder. The girl looked at her wound with little surprise, seeing the blood-stained fabric of her shirt and the hole that spoke of a gunshot. It was obvious she was overwhelmed, her eyes probably still adjusting to the sun. The dust of the wastes had yet to settle on her, and being less than two miles from Vault 101, Charon knew this was her first time out in the Wasteland. And she had the luck of meeting him first. He felt a little sorry for her, knowing what she must think awaited her out here after stumbling across him. She pulled an empty stimpack from her pocket, showing him the used syringe, and he understood that she'd already used her most-likely scant supply of meds.

Ahzrukhal, thankfully, was an idiot who didn't understand how to phrase his orders. He'd never told Charon _not_ to use any of the chems he was picking up, and he'd also never given orders to forbid any autonomy. Charon could do as he liked, so long as he did it while actively collecting chems for his employer.

So, he pulled out a full stimpack and pressed it into the girl's hand, being careful not to let his skin brush hers. Even smoothskins used to ghouls balked at touching them, and he didn't want to frighten her anymore. In Underworld, Charon was a monster. A leashed one, but a monster nonetheless. He served as insurance for his employer, to collect caps he was owed. If the caps weren't forthcoming, Charon was often ordered to collect the payment in blood and marrow. He'd lost count of how many fingers and wrists had snapped in his grip, but it was nice to have an interaction with someone that wasn't violent, when he could.

The vaultie gave him a timid smile, then slid the stimpack into her pocket. She looked faint, and he was tempted to tell her to use it now before she lost more blood, but then realized the problem.

"Is the bullet still in your shoulder?"

The girl looked at him, surprised, then nodded cautiously, turning around a bit for him to see the unmarred flesh of her back. The bullet was still inside then, and using the stimpack now would seal it in. Charon knew this because of the bullet still in his thigh, and how it aches sometimes. He'd been desperate to stop arterial bleeding at one point, and didn't bother pulling it out first. Now, fifty years later, the wound still pained him.

"You are going to need to get that out, then apply the stimpack, to stop the bleeding."

She nodded again, shrugging with a slight grimace. Grudgingly, Charon was impressed with her clear-headedness. Most vaulties were panicked molerats during their first trek into the wastes, especially with a wound and confronted with a ghoul immediately outside their front door.

"Your vault has a doctor, doesn't it? They should be able to help you."

Immediately, the girl's eyes filled with tears and she swiped them away hurriedly, shaking her head as she did. Despite himself, Charon was growing tired and frustrated. His good deed had turned into an ordeal, and he wanted to just be done with this mess. But he was smart enough to know that not everything was as it appeared. For whatever reason, this girl couldn't go back to the vault. Seeing her wounds, almost certainly she had escaped narrowly from her home.

"You can talk, I'm not going to bite," he said, sounding more annoyed than he felt. He was used to smoothskins being rendered speechless at his appearance.

She shook her head again, gliding her fingers up the column of her throat then slashing them down in an X.

A mute, then. Charon's shitty luck just kept getting better. This girl was even more of a walking corpse than he was. Young, mute, alone, and injured with nothing but a crappy pistol for protection, he wouldn't even bet on her making it to Megaton.

"You'd better sit down," he said, tone bitter but kind enough. The girl cocked her head at him, but lowered herself into the shade regardless. Out of the bright sun, she looked a little less like death.

"I'm gonna dig that bullet out of your shoulder, cause the doc in Megaton would charge you and I doubt you have any caps," he explained as he pulled out his own medkit. It was old and sparsely stocked, just enough to keep him alive if he ran into trouble. But it had tweezers and that was all he needed. The kid saw what he was getting at, and pulled a lighter out of her pocket, handing it to him with an expectant stare. She knew to disinfect first, then. That was a good sign.

He flicked the lighter on and passed the tweezers through the flame, before passing it back and letting the metal cool. The kid pulled her shirt free of the wound, sliding the fabric down enough to show a hole just above her right breast. But it wasn't the wound that caught Charon's attention. It was the smooth dark expanse of skin below him, without a single mar nor scar outside of the current wound. Completely devoid of deformity, burns, rad-pocks, or scratches. It was such a rare sight, he almost felt his breath leave his body. He couldn't help but be envious, his own rotten hide was a mess of old bullet tracks and decayed scars.

Gritting his teeth at her hiss of pain, Charon managed to extract the bullet with little effort, and took the stimpack from her to slide into her shoulder without another word. Despite her lack of scars, the girl seemed to tolerate pain well. That, or perhaps whatever malady took her words also took her screams. He didn't envy her that, didn't want to consider the terror of not being able to voice the deepest of pain. His throat closed up with memories, and he shook his head as he retreated from her.  
The stimpack had done its job, her skin had closed beneath his fingertips, puckering into a grotesque scar that didn't look as though it belonged on her unmarred skin. She surveyed the sight with barely constrained curiosity, and didn't look disturbed at all by the newly-formed insult to her vanity. Charon pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees as he did so. Beneath him, the girl did the same, wincing slightly as she put pressure on her injured shoulder. The skin had closed, but the muscles would take another stimpack or rest to heal. Stumbling on the dirt, she shoved her arm back into her shirt, pulling the thinning strap into place.

"There is a settlement that way, called Megaton. You'll find people, water, and a place to sleep there," he said, pointing his finger in the most direct route to Megaton. The girl cocked her head, a question in her eyes, and instead pointed to him and herself, then the gun at her hip. She stood straight, trying to look capable. It would have been cute, had Charon had the patience.

"No, I travel alone."

She nodded, trying to hide the pout to her lip, and even a grizzled old ghoul like himself had to smile at that. He shouldered his pack again while she tucked her arms back into the fabric of her vault suit sleeves. From the corner of his eye, Charon watched her pull the 10mm from her belt and survey it curiously, fingers deft over the handle. Her unimpressed look alleviated a tad of the weight in his gut. At least she knew how to tell a good weapon from a bad one. Perhaps she would make it to Megaton.

He turned to leave, but a hand on his shoulder turned him around. The smoothskin slid her hand down to the bare skin of his upper arm, just below his shoulder pads. Charon almost shuddered at the contact, the feel of her warm hand on his mutilated skin, but the look in her eyes stopped him. She squeezed the muscle once, not the slightest perturbed at his leathery hide, and mouthed her thanks. He gave her a gentle smile, hoping it didn't look terrifying, and squeezed her hand softly before letting it drop. With that, he turned and walked back into the wastes, not bothering to look behind him. 

* * *

He had been stupid to skirt Megaton. He should have restocked, bought more shotgun ammo at one of the last settlements this far west. Now, stuck behind a crumbling wall with an empty gun and only a useless machete against another group of raiders, Charon cursed himself. He had been stupid enough to try and raid the camp, collecting greedily piles of chems that were now weighing down his pack.

Well, no changing the present. He had two options, and both were as likely to get him killed. He could either drop his pack and let the chems be a distraction while he made his escape. But despite Ahzrukhal's lack of time limit, even he knew recollecting the chems would take too long. His employer would just send him straight into a super mutant encampment or on another pointless life-threatening task

His other option, however, was to try and run with the heavy pack or stay and take out the group of raiders, which on no food and little sleep, he'd be flirting with death. So the question was, did he want to die now or later?

Charon ground his teeth, the squeak of enamel filling his ears as he tried to reassess his options. There had to be some way, he hadn't made it over two centuries just to die at the hands of some Jet-stupid idiots. He could leave his pack, tackle the nearest one, and hope he shot somewhere nonlethal. Then he could use the gun from that raider to take out the rest. Unlike his other plans, this one hinged on him being able to take a bullet, which he didn't like the thought of any better. His armor was in bad disrepair, and with no other backup, he'd be lucky if he didn't bleed out before clearing the area.

He snuck a glance around the corner, seeing where the closest enemy was, and cursed as a bullet grazed his shoulder. Much, much closer than he expected. It was possible the raider who had shot at him was just on the other side of the shack he was huddled against.

He was back to reassessing his options, and now ignoring yet another bullet wound, but couldn't come up with any method of action that didn't lead to his death. Even if he did drop his bag now, he might not make it. Raiders weren't known to be smart or forgiving.

Charon swore and threw his pack to the ground, shifting his shotgun into his grip to use as a club, and launched himself around the corner. Shots fired past his ear, and another clipped him in the thigh, sending him sprawling out into the dust, right into the raider's feet. A harsh laugh mocked him as a gun was raised to his temple, and he couldn't find it in himself to move. Instead, he closed his eyes and waited.

But when the shot came, it wasn't into his head. He peeled his eyes open to watch the raider above him fire two shots toward a roof less than fifty meters away. Before the third shot could leave his gun, a neat bullet caught him directly between the eyes, and the raider fell backwards into the crumbling wall. Four more met the same fate, and fell into the dirt where they stood, with little pathetic cries to herald their demise.

On the roof to his right, Charon saw a tiny figure slide to the ground, gun held confidently in a steady grip, sweeping the area as the figure hurried towards him. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes before his vision faded away into nothing. 

* * *

"Kid, look, I've already done enough for you. I can't do anymore, not without some caps."

Charon's world came back slowly, trickling into his consciousness with all the speed of a leaky faucet, achingly tedious. He heard voices, tried to decipher them. But for all he could understand, there was only one person talking.

"If you need caps, go look around town, you can find some jobs to do. Your friend can stay here, I'll even give you a discount on the bed. I can just add it to your tab."

Something smacked down on a table, sounding like a fist, the muted impact of flesh on wood, and the speaker sighed.

"There's no need to get upset. I could just toss you out right now, but instead I saved your friend's life. You should be thankful. Now come back when you have some caps, he'll make it until then. But I'd hurry, his painkillers are going to wear off soon."

The sound of footsteps echoed across the metal floors, and Charon felt the whole building shake when the door slammed.

****************************************************  
Gemma's face felt permanently stuck in a scowl position by now. She'd managed to drag the man to town, even with his pack, and find the doctor in time to stop the bleeding from his thigh and stitch up the worst of his wounds, which she could have done easily had she had the supplies. Instead, she had to entrust him to the hands of the town medic. Something inside her ached for Jonas, for his gentle hands, and her father's reassuring bedside manner. They would have helped the man for free, especially after what he did for her.

Her feet lead her up the path to the town bar. If anyone had caps to spare in exchange for work, it would be a saloon owner. She shouldered past the door, trying to soothe her face into something less terrifying. Her charm and charisma were all she had right now, and she had to use them as best as she could.

The bartender was another grizzled person like the one she had met. His face was more deteriorated than that of her "friend", discolored in ways that almost looked like bruising in some places. He cleaned a gas as he argued with a woman about the radio. The woman was leaning against the wall with a cigarette between her lips, telling the bartender to lay off the radio with a disinterested air. It was her who met Gemma's eyes first, and she arched a single fine eyebrow as she put out her cigarette in the ashtray.

"You alright sweetie?"

Gemma shook her head, tapping her throat in explanation.

"Can't talk? That's alright, you'll get along just fine with Gob here," she said, gesturing to the bartender, before pointing back to herself, "I'm Nova. If you need a room or company, come talk to me honey. Anything else, talk to Gob. Well, I guess sign, on your part."

Nova's smile was kind enough, if a little questioning. Gemma smiled back and then turned her gaze on the bartender, who seemed to cringe from it.

"Nova, don't scare the poor kid, didn't you see the suit?" he complained without any bite.

She didn't hear Nova's response over the sliding of the barstool, and slid into place in front of the bartender without further protest from either of them. Reaching out, she caught the bartender's hand in her own and tapped it to get his attention.

He pulled his hand from hers with a panicked gasp, and turned to face her fully. From this close, she could see that the discoloration was most certainly bruising. Concerned, Gemma touched her fingers to her face and gestured to his own, shrugging her shoulders in question.

The bartender visibly deflated, eyes downcast, as if ashamed.

"I'm guessing you've never seen a ghoul before, eh kid?"

Gemma shook her head, then tapped under her eye, where his own was bruised a sickly green. Gob just stared at her, mouth agape.

"My… My eye?"

She nodded enthusiastically. For some reason, the people out her understood her better than the vault ever had.

"Oh that's just Moriarity, kid. Part of the job, don't worry about it."

Head cocked, she crooked her own eyebrow in question. Gob laughed, seeming to feel a little more at ease.

"You'll find out soon enough. Now what can I get for you, smoothskin?"

Gemma pulled out her pipboy and clicked to an empty notes screen, then painstakingly typed out a message. She tapped the bartender's hand again and moved her arm awkwardly so he could read her screen.

"A job? You'll have to talk to Moriarty about that, kid," Gob grumbled, shaking his head as he pulled away from her pip boy, looking her over with something akin to pity. He shot a glance to Nova, who shook her head as if in warning.

"The last vaultie who passed through here was looking for the same thing. I don't think there's much, although I'm sure Moira could always use help with a few tasks. I don't know if the caps would be worth it though, she's a few rads short of a feral, that one," Nova explained.

Gemma's hung swung around at the word "vaultie", and she was frantically typing something on her pipboy. Just as she passed her arm to Gob, who to his credit tried his best not to touch her as he leaned over the screen, the door behind them slammed open and sent all three of them jumping.

"The fuck is this? You think I'm payin' ya to sit there and stare at a screen all day, boy'oh? Get back to work!"

Gemma didn't miss the way the ghoul flinched and stiffened, mumbling, "Yes, Mr. Moriarty." She narrowed her eyes at the newcomer, an old man with a strange accent.

"Lay off him, Colin," Nova admonished lightly, "he was trying to help a customer."

Moriarty turned his gaze to Gemma this time, and she felt colder for it. Her eyes snaked back to Gob's bruises, and she glared back at the man defiantly. As if sensing her challenge, Moriarty came up to stand beside Gob, slapping his hand on the ghoul's shoulder solidly, in a cruel parody of a friendly touch. The bartender flinched each time, cringing away from the man as much as he could, but he was cornered.

"Well then, kiddo, what can I help you with?"

Gemma bit the inside of her cheek as she typed out a new message. Moriarty had no issues grabbing her arm to read the screen, fingers gripping cruelly tight.

"Your daddy? Yeah, I saw him. He was here, and left again. And that's all your getting for free, lass."

Gemma yanked her arm away with little to hid her revulsion, and shot the old man a glare that spoke better than words ever could. Moriarty laughed, although she saw his flicker of anger beneath that charade.

"I think I've insulted her. Listen, lassie, the world out here isn't anything like your little vault. You want something, you have to have something to trade for it. Information is as much of a good as stimpacks or alcohol, and I'm not a charity. Now, if you don't have caps or skills to trade, come back when you do and I'll tell you all about dear old dad."

And with that, he was sauntering away towards the front door, the door to what Gemma presumed was his office still swung halfway open. Nova caught her looking, and clicked her tongue. Gob's voice, to his credit, didn't waver at all as he leaned in and whispered in her ear.

"There's a back door and a terminal back there."

Gemma grinned. 

* * *

Someone was sitting by his bedside, and faint music was playing somewhere near his ear. Charon groaned, bringing a hand up to press to his aching skull. He reached out his other arm to find the damned radio making that racket, but instead his fingers grazed something warm and squishy.

Once he convinced his eyes to open, Charon turned his head to find the vault girl sitting beside him, a smile on her lips and her eyes shining as she caught his hand and squeezed it, mimicking his goodbye from a few days ago.

Slowly, everything steadied in his vision and his memories flooded back to crowd his skull. A quick glance down to his thigh confirmed that it was indeed wrapped in clean bandages, and the buzzed feeling in his bones sang of stimpacks and med-x. In the background, an old doctor in a dusty white coat fiddled with instruments and did his best to avoid looking at them.

He cleared his throat, and the vaultie dropped his hand, a tad self-consciously, as though she hadn't realized she'd been holding it still. Charon took that as his cue, and pulled himself up in the bed, grateful there was no blanket to get tangled in. He felt dizzy enough.

"My pack?" he asked, unable to stop himself. It was the most important thing in that moment, and he almost snatched it out of the girl's hands when she hoisted it from beside the bed. His hands tested the pockets and straps, looking for damage or missing items, but for whatever lingering effects of meds he was feeling, none were missing from his pack.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, dreading the answer. The kid held up two fingers, which he already knew meant days. Groaning, he turned and lifted his feet from the bed. She was there in an instant, trying to push him back into a resting position, not caring the slightest when she touched his unclothed shoulders, and that was when he realized he was shirtless, sitting there in nothing but his boxers.

"Good to see you up," a voice said from across the room. Charon looked up to see the doctor approaching them, flashlight in hand. He shined it in the ghoul's eyes without warning, touching as little as possible as he checked his vitals.

"Looks like you were right, kid, the radiation did help. Should have tried that before wasting my stims, would have saved you a lot of money, too."

Vaultie just crossed her arms and shot the doctor a look, then turned her attention back to Charon. She tapped her temple then chest and pointed to him, concern written in every line of her face.

"I'm fine, kid, don't go worrying about me. I've withstood worse," he responded. Her smile was brilliant, and she turned it on the doctor in thanks.

"Don't mention it, now get him out of here. He's awake, he can walk, and I'm not a hotel."

The doctor turned his back on them and walked into the upper level of his shack, mumbling all the way. Shooting him one last glare, the girl moved herself onto the bed by Charon's side and pulled his arm over her shoulders, obviously intending to help him up. He almost protested, but found rising even with her help to be no small feat. Panting, she released him long enough to shoulder his considerably heavy pack on her other arm, then stepped back into place to support him.

Charon didn't bother asking where they were going, the kid obviously had a plan and she'd gotten them this far. He followed her without comment, matching his steps to hers, breathing ragged through the bolts of pain shooting from his thigh. The wound must have been bad, if it was still this painful.

She lead them to a two-story shack near the wall of the town, fishing keys out of her pocket and twisting them in the lock without ever letting him go. Once inside, she managed to lower him to the couch, and he fell into it gratefully, a full-body shudder coursing through him as his muscles screamed. The girl disappeared and came back with a glass of water, which tingled against his lips as he drank. Irradiated, thankfully. Somehow, the kid had figured out what healed ghouls, and Charon drained three glasses gratefully before laying down.

He wasn't used to feeling this drained, and figured some part of it must be the meds wearing off. His entire body was one pulled muscle, and even laying down took all of his energy. A groan escaped him before he could contain it, and the vault kid was at his side in an instant, glass forgotten in the kitchen. Her hands fluttered over him, as if scared to cause more pain, before she settled for pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and laying it over him as gently as possible.

"I'm alright, smoothskin, just a little sore," he reassured her, voice gruff. He hated being seen like this, as if he wasn't capable of taking care of himself. Still, even he wasn't dumb enough to think he'd still be alive if she hadn't helped him.

She smiled and nodded ,then sat gingerly on the edge of the couch beside him, her warmth pressing into his gut, eliciting another shudder. He wasn't used to people being this close to him, certainly wasn't used to her eyes on him holding no ounce of disgust at her proximity. It was only then that Charon realized he didn't know her name.

"I'm Charon," he said, turning his face towards her as a way of prompting her own response. She pulled up her pipboy, clicked a few buttons, then turned it towards him.

"Gemma," he read, and the girl nodded enthusiastically. With that settled, she turned her pipboy screen back off and walked into the kitchen again, returning with a glass of water she set on the table beside him. Patting his arm soothingly, and pulling the blanket up to cover him toe-to-neck, she gave him a final smile before disappearing. Behind him, Charon heard stairs creak. The girl was a strange one, this Gemma. Still, he was tired, and as much as the contract choked him when he thought about it, he couldn't get back to Ahzrukhal in this condition. So, he might as well sleep.

His last thought before drifting off was of where the hell this house had come from.


	2. Chapter 2

Gemma was proficient in three things: stealing, sleeping, and hiding. She was a mediocre level in everything else. Still, she had absorbed some of her dad's knowledge of medicine. Enough to know she had really fucked up her leg.

She'd jumped from the highest balcony in town to injure herself enough for Moira's crazy experiments, and might have overdone it. The trek back up to her house to find her stimpacks was torture, even more so because she knew she couldn't use them yet. She just wanted them on hand in case Moira didn't have enough. If she fixed this within the next 24 hours, she might walk properly again. Maybe.

Charon's reclining form shifted to rigid and alert the moment she stepped in the door, his peering eyes fastened to her leg, watching her as she limped into the kitchen. Her hands were shaking with pain and frustration, and she only succeeded in dropping the stimpacks onto the floor. Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit her lip to keep from crying. The pain was making it hard to think.

Scarred hands reached out from behind her and grabbed the stimpacks from the floor, pressing them gently into her hands. She looked up to find Charon's eyes on her, brow wrinkled in either confusion or concern. He squeezed her hands once before letting them go, leaving her fingers curled tightly around the stimpacks. He nodded once to her, then limped back to the couch and hovered over it, unsure whether to sit back down again.

Her house guest was strange this way. He communicated mostly in grunts and nods, and spent most of his time cleaning his gun or counting chems in his pack. Gemma wasn't sure why he hoarded so many and so obsessively checked them, but she supposed she had her strange habits too.

Still, despite their differences, they worked well together. Charon had taken to cleaning the guns she left downstairs, and she had cooked dinner and brought it to the couch to eat together every night. Three days in, it felt comfortable. The silence between them was familiar, friendly. They had no need to tip toe around each other, or worry about upsetting the other or making them uncomfortable, their friendship just flowed. Well, at least she thought of it as friendship. She wasn't sure about Charon, he was hard to read on the best of days.

And ow, oh fuck, today definitely wasn't the best of days.

She stuffed the stimpacks into her pocket and started limping her way back to the front door, attempting and failing to stay steady on her own two legs. Without a word, Charon rose and slid his arm under hers, as she had done to him, to support her shoulders. At his height, it was awkward, but between the two of them, they made it to Moira's without injuring themselves further. 

* * *

The kid was a lunatic. She'd just nearly crippled herself to help with "research", which was a debatable word when applied to Moira, and she already agreed again to help by getting irradiated. Now, they were standing shoulder to shoulder near the atom bomb, watching the highly irradiated water ripple in the night breeze. The town was quiet, too quiet, Charon could practically hear Gemma's indecision. If she held his contract, he would have removed her from this situation without hesitation. As her friend, however, he had no say in her decisions, as idiotic as they were. Still….

"This is stupid, smoothskin, even for you."

Gemma jumped at his voice, turning her large eyes towards him in surprise. After a moment of staring, she shrugged.

"Even if she fixes you up, the amount of radiation she wants you to expose yourself to could permanently change you. You could end up like me."

She just shrugged again, patted his shoulder, and crouched down to cup some of the water in her hands. There was little he could do but watch as she drank handful after handful, shuddering after every sip. He stepped into the pool and dragged her out when he noticed the radiation burns on her hands, and she shot him a glare before he fell to the ground and threw up all over his boots.

Like he'd said, lunatic.

He scooped her up like an old doll and carried her to Moira's shop, eager to get this over with. His leg was nearly fully healed, and he felt the contract pulling on him more every day. Charon wanted to be sure the kid wouldn't get into too much trouble when he had to leave, so it was best to get it over with while he was here.

Moira poked and prodded and asked yes or no questions like she normally did. To Charon's satisfaction, the kid threw up all over the shop floor before Moira gave her the meds. She chattered incessantly, telling him to make sure she got plenty of rest and fluids and not to worry too much about the gene mutation. Charon just nodded before carting the mostly-unconscious vaultie back to her shack. She laid on the couch for the rest of the night, tossing and turning and waking up to vomit into the bucket left beside her. He was sorely tempted to use a Med-X on her, but his contract would not allow him to take any more chems from the pack.

By the next morning, Gemma was sleeping peacefully, and Charon's bones were itching with anticipation. It was time to go. It was well passed the time for him to go, but he had lingered as long as he could.

He lowered himself gently onto the couch by her head, gingerly brushing the hair from her face so he could check her fever. With relief, he found her cool to the touch. She shifted under his ministrations, pressing her head into his lap, sighing contentedly when she found a comfortable position using him as a pillow.

As odd as it was, Charon found himself wishing he never had to move. He wanted this, with surprising vehemency. He wanted their easy days to go on, where the most he had to worry about was her astounding capacity for idiotic decisions. All the more reason he had to leave, today. He was getting attached, and worse than that, so was she. Ahzrukhal would never approve of friendships, and if Gemma ever came sniffing around asking for him, his employer was likely to make him kill her just for the fun of it.

No, he had to cut this off before it grew into something he couldn't end, if it hadn't already. It's not like Gemma was the first to treat him with kindness. He tried reminding himself of Quinn and Willow and all the others who were friendly with him until Ahzrukhal had ordered him back to work. There was nothing special about this single smoothskin, or so he tried to tell himself.

Abruptly, his skin started to burn and he knew he couldn't remain any longer.

He slipped from beneath her and reached for a blanket instead, tucking it around her as she repositioned, seeking the fading warmth of him on the cushions. Charon found himself wishing he had something to leave her, but quickly shook that thought away. He was not a sentimental man, and it was better that she forget him.

Even if he knew he would never forget her.


	3. Chapter 3

When Gemma awoke, her head was fuzzy. The room smelled like vomit, and she could feel it crusting the hem of her shirt, dried on her neck in clammy chunks. _Ugh._

An hour and two showers later, she was back in her living room, dressed in clean clothes with dripping hair and flipping the cushions on her couch to hide the mess. She'd mop the floors later.

It was a few more hours before she realized Charon wasn't back yet, so she set out looking for him. The Doc hadn't seen him, nor had Moira. A terrible feeling was creeping into her chest as she approached the bar. It was the last place she could think to look for him. In town, at least.

"Hey, there she is! Up and back on her feet! How about you buy me a drink to celebrate?!" Jericho hollered from his corner. Gemma shot him a half-hearted glare before climbing onto one of the bar stools. Gob was busy cleaning a glass, although the rag looked anything but clean. A smear of lipstick disappeared under his occupied gaze, and he wouldn't meet her eyes.

A glance over at Nova was rewarded with nothing but a pitiful look before she went to join Jericho at his table. Gemma's eyes slid back to Gob, a pleading look on her face, and he could only sigh and finally set the glass down.

"Gal named Lucy West saw him leaving this morning, came here to report a runaway ghoul to ol' Moriarty. I guess we all look the same to them or something," he muttered.

Leaving?

Tears welled in her eyes like she was some forgotten child, and she couldn't do anything to hide them. Because she was. Her dad walked out on her, and now Charon. She glared down at the bar, watching the cracks in the wood blur so she wouldn't have to meet Gob's gaze.

"Oh, poor little flower, did she finally realize Daddy doesn't want her? Lil' tyke's lucky she weren't drowned as a babe, sickly thing that she was. Nary a tit to suckle then, nor now, it seems."

Gemma tried to drown Moriarty out, but the man was having none of it. He wasn't an idiot, he'd probably figured out she had hacked his computer. But with no way to prove it, he was left with torturing her the only way he could, she supposed.

"Nova has a tit, girl. 120 caps, and she's yours for the night. Supposing that rotting shuffler you dragged in didn't get to you first. I won't be toleratin' any diseases spread to me best gal, you see," he said in a sing song voice, draping an arm over her shoulder. And at last, Gemma knew what he was getting at. If she socked him, like she wanted to now, he could have her thrown out of town. Whether she'd disabled the bomb or not, Simms wouldn't allow a brawler to stay and threaten the status quo here.

She held her gaze on the counter below her, hands picking at a hangnail in her lap to keep occupied.

"Of course, if ya be needing company, an old fox such as myself might have some things I could be teaching ya, lassie. Could even take on another gal, take somma the strain off'a Nova. I had heard you was looking for work, the first day you came here."

His eyes were on hers, and she couldn't help but glare back at him, hangnail forgotten in favor of clenching her fists into the fabric of her pants.

"Whadd'ya say, lass? Bet you could sell that house o'yours and pay for room and board here for a long while, I can cut you a nice bargain, make you forget all about that Daddy of yours and yer zombie friend. I bet lot'sa men will be linin' up to see if they can't make you scream, in one way o'another!"

His chuckle vibrated down his arm and into her shoulders, sky rocketing the beating of her heart. She had very few options, here. Either she ignore him, and hope he doesn't figure out a way to spin that into consent on her part. Or she could leave, but without Charon and all alone in her house? What would stop him from taking her anyways? She knew how he'd gotten Gob, but Nova was another mystery. Most likely, he'd string her out on chems and use that to get her working for them, and as an excuse to rack up a debt she'd have to spend her life paying off.

"Why don't ya come into the back with me, and we can take ya for a test run," Moriarity said, the arm on her shoulder turning hostile, clenching down so hard that she had to grit her teeth. If she followed him to the back room, and made sure to escape without leaving a mark, he wouldn't be able to say anything against her. No witnesses that way, and she could go through the back door.

It was the best option she had so far. She'd found his gun, last time, in the upper drawer of his desk. She could take it and use it to threaten him, show him she wasn't worth messing with. That way, he'd leave her alone for good.

But when he clutched her wrist and dragged her off the bar stool and around the counter, Gemma found her plans leaving her quicker than she could formulate them, dull terror clutching at her chest. She looked around wildly, until her eyes met a milky blue gaze and suddenly there was another hand on her wrist, prying Moriarty's bruising fingers away from her.

"Mr. Moriarty, she hasn't paid her tab, sir. You told me not to let people leave my sight before they have," Gob said, his rough voice wavering.

The two men had some sort of stare off, while Gemma was praying Moriarity wouldn't point out that she hadn't had anything to drink yet. But he had eyes only for his bartender, with the curl of his lip promising retribution after everyone else went home.

"Gemma, why don't you come back and sit down, and I'll get you another beer, alright?"  
To his credit, Gob's hands only shook a little as he turned his back on Moriarty, and grabbed her a beer from the shelf, popping the cap for her and sliding it across the counter.

It took another tense minute for Moriarity to leave, stalking back to his office and slamming the door shut hard enough to make Gob flinch.

He steadied himself on the counter, hands clenching the edge hard enough for her to see his inner tendons trembling.

Slowly, so he could see the movement, she reached out her hands and took one of his palms into her own, squeezing it gently and rubbing small circles below his thumb. When his eyes met hers, she could see the panic there, and could only squeeze his hand harder and hope he saw the question in her eyes.

"I…. Fifteen years I've been here, and I've seen him ruin girls in less than six months. I couldn't…. I couldn't just stand by and let it happen again. If he'd gotten you into his office, that'd be the end of it. He'd have you on payroll by morning, and Simms wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it," Gob explained, lowering his eyes to where their hands met, watching the way her fingers tightened around his.

She didn't hesitate when she brought their joined hands to her lips, and pressed a warm kiss to the back of Gob's palm, failing to prevent a couple of her tears from joining it. There would be hell to pay for what he'd done, for her. And she had no way of paying him back.

He gasped at the contact, and jerked, though not hard enough to dislodge his hand from her own. When she lowered them back down to the counter, he was shaking anew, but the smile on his face was the brightest she'd ever seen from him.

"You're welcome, smoothskin." 

* * *

Gob had known he was in trouble since he watched Moriarty sit beside the vault girl, and had been preparing himself for the inevitable beat down since he'd laid his hand on Moriarty's wrist. But it was worth it, for that fleeting moment of human warmth and the kid's obvious gratitude. Gob felt pretty fucking proud of himself, even as he watched Nova disappear upstairs with Jericho and watched the last of the patrons leave the bar.

Even when Moriarity took after him with a cane and left him bloody and dazed on a floor he'd have to clean before morning.

There was no use getting up. Blood was pouring from a wound in his head, and Gob found himself wondering if the old bastard had finally managed to kill him this time. It didn't matter, really, if he died here or in his room. He'd saved someone, instead of sitting back like a coward like he did every time before. If he died over that, it was a good way to go.

He was trying to remember what Carol's stew tasted like when he heard someone gasp, and prayed it wasn't Nova who'd found him. His eyes were too swollen to see, but when hands gently brushed his scant hair away from his forehead, he knew immediately who it was. There was only one person who touched him with no hesitation in their movements.

"Kid?" he wheezed, trying to figure out how she'd gotten in here. Moriarty had waited until he'd locked the door, and surely Gob would have seen the kid come back in if she'd been here before then.

His answer was the feel of a needle sliding into the skin in the crook of his elbow, and he couldn't help his answering hiss at the sting. But then the sweet warmth of med-x floated into his system, and the tension melted out of him with a groan.

"That's the stuff," he murmured, allowing himself to be re-positioned. Gemma managed to pull him out of the curled position he'd put himself into, to protect his vital organs, and straightened him out on the hard floor. Any pain he might have felt was quickly chased away by the pull of the med-x, and he was pliant under her fingertips.

The sickening crunch of bones being set was the only sound he heard over her breathing, but the sharp pains faded just as soon as they came, with a dull sting and the strange feeling of a stimpack knitting his bones and flesh back together. When it came time to straighten his ankle, which was currently facing the wrong way, he couldn't help the whimper that came out of him.

Some hero he was.

But then her hands were back in his hair, gentle and grounding, before she put her hands back on his leg and straightened the bone without so much as a wince. The med-x couldn't quite dull this sharp pain, of several bones grinding back into place, and even when the stimpacks had been administered, his whole leg still pulsed. Fingers prodded at his ribs, and Gob's newly healed fingers closed over her own.

"Just… just give me a minute, please, smoothskin."

Her hands left him, and for a moment he worried he'd chased her away. He hadn't meant to inconvenience her, it was just getting too much and his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth through the uncomfortable ministrations. He only had time to worry for a minute, before hands were on his shoulders gently lifting his head, and placing it back down on something soft and warm, and her fingers carded through his hair once more.

It wasn't until a drop of something landed on him that Gob realized. He was laying halfway in her lap, and the small hitching of her breath he could hear gave him a pretty good indication of what she was doing.

Hesitantly, he raised his arm and searched the air above him with his fingertips, eventually landing on what he guessed to be her cheek.

"It's alright, kid, I've had worse from that ol' bastard, don't worry yourself over me," he whispered, feeling her clench a hand around his own on her cheek. She was young, far too young to be worrying about an old ghoul like him.

"Say, anything you can do about my eyes? I can't see nothing," Gob said, hoping to distract her.

While he wasn't crazy about the feeling of a large needle pressing against the skin under his eyes, he couldn't deny that the stimpacks did their job quickly. He didn't even know they worked on swelling.

When he was finally able to crack his eyes open and blink a few tears out, he wasn't at all surprised to find her face hovering above his own.

"What are you doing in here? How'd you get here?" he asked, bringing his hand back down to his chest, trying to get the blood flowing again. Her own followed, and they both rested on his sternum, despite the burn from the pressure.

She used her other hand to hold out a bobby pin, and made a few movements with the instrument that he recognized for what they were.

"You picked the lock? You sly little shit! And here ol' Moriarty thought you were helpless," he grinned.

She gave him a small, wet smile, and clutched his hand tighter. After a few moments of companionable silence, Gob finally sucked in a deep breath and lifted his head slightly, to look at the mess his body had become. Truth-be-told, he looked a lot better than he did the last time his eyes had been able to open.

Her hand pulled away from his and nudged at his shirt, a question in the halting movements.

"Yeah, I'm ready as I'll ever be," he said, dropping his head back down to her thighs. She smiled gently, smoothing his hair back before grabbing another stimpack and sliding his shirt up to inject it in the space between two ribs that were definitely cracked. It took three more stimpacks before he could take a breath without pain, and he couldn't help the tears of relief that slipped from his eyes at the realization.

The empty needles joined an impressive pile near his right shoulder, and Gob tried not to count how many meds the kid had wasted on him.  
But when she pulled him to his feet and he was able to move with minimal pain, he couldn't find the guts to wish she had saved her supplies. She lowered him onto one of the stools by the bar, his back pressed against the wall to support him.

He almost laughed when she came back with a clean cloth from god knows where, and started gently wiping the blood from his face. His head pulsed, but was no longer bleeding. He must have missed her stimpacking his scalp, and could only guess she had done it the first time she'd stroked his hair.

It was strange, having someone's face so close to his, and not having to cower or worry about being hit. Gob was free to notice the flecks of gold in her otherwise black irises, and the way she bit the inside of her cheek when she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn flake of blood stuck in the seam of his skin.

The soothing monotony of her ministrations lulled him into a sort of trance, and he hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep until she was shaking him awake, a knowing smile on her face.

His legs worked fine now, thanks to her, but that didn't stop her from slipping her arm under his shoulders and helping him make his way up the steps. She let him take the lead and set the pace, directing her to his room with a nod, so as not to wake Nova or Jericho. If Moriarty found out she'd been here, all of her careful work would have been for nothing.

He fell into the bed gracelessly, his head swimming from both the aftermath of the beating and the side effects of the heavy amounts of meds. Gemma tucked up the blankets around him, making an unhappy face at the fact that he had no pillow. She shoved a corner of the thin blanket beneath the base of his skull, providing just a bit of padding between his battered brains and the rusty springs of his mattress. He caught her hands as she retreated, and she stilled, looking at him expectantly.

"Thanks, smoothskin. I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured sleepily, trying his best to meet her eyes despite the fact that his were rapidly closing. He thought he caught a smile, before his eyelids fluttered shut.

And he wasn't sure if the feeling of lips on his forehead, pressing a gentle kiss to a faded bruise there, was a dream or not. Somehow, it didn't matter. It was real to him all the same.

He didn't know when she left, or how she locked the door again when she did. But when Gob came down the next morning, she was gone and the floors were spotless.


	4. Chapter 4

It took all the power he had not to react when he saw the familiar dark figure enter the bar, looking a little more vibrant than when he had last seen her, but still identifiable as a vaultie. Her skin had lost the pallor of illness she had kept, and her hair seemed to have more sheen, though it had been braided tightly against her scalp in neat rows, cascading down her back to fizzle out shortly above her shoulders.

Her eyes found his the second she stepped into the bar, a small smile flitting across her face for only a brief second before she set herself back to a stoic expression. Ahzrukhal's eyes lit up at the sight of her sitting down at a bar stool, young and naive looking despite her false confidence. His employer was no fool, reading people was his game. Despite whatever facade the Gemma tried to portray, her shoulders were set just a tad too tightly, her jaw deliberately held high and clenched.

There was no sense attempting to listen to their conversation across the bar, particularly because Gemma seemed to be talking primarily with her Pipboy. Ahzruhkhal was unable to understand her sign as easily as the people in Megaton, apparently. He seemed out of his game, unable to read tone or facial expression when looking only at a screen of text. His fingers thrummed across the countertop, a nervous tell in their rhythm. Both subjects of the conversation told a story in the line of their bodies, and Charon did not like what he was seeing.

By the end, both Gemma and Ahzrukhal seemed satisfied. The former a quiet satisfaction, while the latter was positively glowing with malicious energy. His eyes narrowed, and flicked to Charon in his corner, mouth quirking up in a lopsided smile.

He called his bodyguard over with a flick of the wrist, a sign he'd drilled into Charon's vocabulary on the second day of possessing his contract. Containing a groan, the ghoul wandered over and took care not to pass too closely to Gemma, lest he give off some sign of familiarity.

"Charon, my loyal employee! Meet your newest coworker! She's going to be gathering some…. Supplies, for me, I want you to accompany her on her first few runs, to make sure her performance is satisfactory."

Gemma turned to him with a smile, but was quickly cowed by whatever she read in his face. The show must have impressed his employer, because the man laughed and leaned over to clap Charon on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, little lady, he's more bite than bark. But he's a well-trained mutt and he only bites when I tell him to. So long as you and I are good, you and Charon won't have any problems."

Gemma guessed at whatever charade Charon was playing, and managed a weak nod while keeping her eyes wide. Privately, on the corner of her mouth Ahzrukhal couldn't see, her smile turned up the edge of her lips in jest, eyes bright under the dusty lights of the Ninth Circle. Charon growled, and the smile disappeared.

"Now, now, Charon, play nice. You two are going to be working together, after all," Ahzrukhal laughed, delighted.

Gemma snapped her eyes back to Ahzrukhal, and lifted one shoulder in question.

"Yes, yes, you might as well set out now. I'd like this matter resolved as quickly as possible," the bartender said, making a shooing motion with his hands.

Gemma set out without further comment, clutching her pack tightly to her back, fingers white across the strap. She had a limp in her step that hadn't been there the last time Charon had seen her, and there was a scar across the back of her neck, sloping down beneath the material of her leather armor. All things considered, she looked good for a vaultie who had attempted to waltz into downtown DC. Much better than the last smoothskin passing through Underworld had fared.

Charon waited until they were a turn away from the main stairwell, and grabbed her shoulder hard enough to bruise, loosening only at her slight gasp of pain.

"What the hell are you doing here, smoothskin? I didn't make myself clear when I left?"

Gemma shrugged his hand off her shoulder and turned, leaning against the wall with an air of nonchalance, expression soft.

"Ahzrukhal is going to suck you dry and toss you to the ferals, kid, you don't know what you're getting into."

His only reply was a tap on her temple and a circle in the air, a knowing smirk on her face.

"You have a plan? What the fuck are you up to?"

Gemma grinned and leaned in to bump her shoulder against his arm, her smile growing and mischief lighting in her eyes.

"This isn't a game!"

Charon's anger did little to diminish her grin, but she did have the decency to look a little guilty at least.

She circled a finger over her heart, then crossed it and gestured to him then herself, smile turning softer and the curve of her body leaning more into his own.

"That's all you can give me? Just to 'trust you'?"

A resolute nod was the only reply before Gemma turned to lope down the steps, something in her pack jingling as she went.

Far from reassured, Charon followed her closely, watching as she navigated Underworld with apparent ease, stopping into Winthrop's usual hangout.

"Ah, smoothskin! Nice to see you again! You got another haul for me?"

Gemma nodded excitedly, already dropping her pack to dig out a neatly packaged stack of scrap metal, which looked far too large to have comfortably fit inside the now half-collapsed bag.

"Not much luck, huh? That's alright, we all know you don't really need the caps anyway," Winthrop said with a wink, taking the metal and passing back the twine that had tied the pieces together. The twine disappeared into a pocket on the pack, and then Gemma shouldered it once more.

"That's eight pieces, so that's eight caps. Want it now or can I get it to you with your next load?"

Winthrop laughed softly when Gemma slashed a hand through the air and shook her head, giving the handyman a thumbs up.

"Thanks, girl. Add it to my tab, you're a right up gal," he replied.

Gemma nodded, then shot him a finger gun and a wave, shifting the pack on her shoulder and setting back down the hallway they'd come from.

"Take care now!" Winthrop called after them, earning another smile and wave of acknowledgment from the kid before they turned a corner and were out of sight. The main doors loomed before them, and Charon instinctively shifted his shoulder to test the weight of his shotgun. As usual, it was fully loaded.

Gemma fell into step beside him, pulling open one door with a groan from the old wood. The outer museum was considerably darker than the inside of Underworld, the silhouette of the mammoth casting ominous shadows across the ground at their feet.

"Heya Gemma! Heading out again already?"

Charon turned to find Willow waving at them from across the hall, her gun held loosely in her hand. She turned her gaze to him, smile turning harder as she watched them advance closer.

"I see you decided to go ahead with that crazy plan of yours. I don't like it, kid, but I know there's no stopping you. Just promise you'll be careful, alright? Carol would have a warrant on my head if she thinks I let you walk out to your death."

Charon wasn't quite sure what to make of all this information, or the easy familiarity Gemma had apparently already cultivated with the ghouls of Underworld. Willow alone was a hard sell on most smoothskins, having tasked herself with keeping bigots from coming to their city looking for trouble.

He didn't see what sign Gemma made in return, but apparently it was enough to make the ghoulette smile.

"That's the spirit!"

Gemma bid her farewell with a sloppy salute, which Willow returned with a tight one of her own, the formal motion well-rehearsed. They walked away with no further conversation, but Charon felt Willow's eyes on his back until they walked through the outer doors of the museum, and out into the wastes.

* * *

Someone had cleared the mutants that normally congregated in front of the buildings crowding the streets, and recently too, judging by the smell of decay still hanging in the air. It was hard to tell without close inspection what exactly had killed most mutants, but blast marks on the ground and a few sliced limbs and heads suggested someone with grenades to spare and some sort of melee weapon. Knowing the weapons most available in the Wastes, Charon could only guess it was a machete.

Despite the lack of apparent danger, Gemma kept her movements to the shadows, cocking her head whenever the wind carried a sound in their direction. Charon's ears weren't as sensitive as they had once been, which he accounted to a lack of actual ear lobes, but he managed to catch most of the sounds that made her grip her gun tightly in its holster. A car explosion, somewhere off in the distance. The growl of a wild dog a few alleys down, which she skirted carefully. It was a stark contrast to the kid he'd met just outside the vault, with her heavy steps and uneven footing. It'd only been a month or so since he'd last seen her, but apparently Gemma had managed to hone her survival skills. It didn't hurt that apparently someone was cleaning up the streets, too. It'd make passage for everyone easier. Perhaps caravans would even pass through Underworld more often because of it, if the team kept their work up.

Falling into step in her shadow seemed natural to Charon, though they'd never technically faced combat together. Most of his employers were right-handed, so covering their left flank was typically the best strategy. But there was no pull of the contract between their bodies, no hidden command to protect at all costs. Ahzrukhal had, in a roundabout way, ordered him to protect her. But the unspoken command was not to allow her to abandon whatever task he'd sent her on.

They wandered for hours without so much as a glance at each other, though Charon kept the kid in his peripheral at all times. Every so often she would tense, stopping momentarily to scope the horizon before continuing on, sometimes directing them to shadows or into a path behind the skeletons of cars.

They were heading in the general direction of Megaton, though not the most direct route. The lack of clear orders was making the base of Charon's skull itch, but there was little he could do if neither Gemma nor Ahzrukhal bothered to inform him of their arrangement. He'd find out regardless when they reached whatever destination Gemma had in mind, but until then, he was in the dark.

They continued down the streets until the buildings of downtown DC were just husks behind them, darkened in the twilight like looming monsters on the horizon. Gemma finally slowed her pace when they neared an old decrepit shack seemingly in the middle of nowhere, thrown together by a group of raiders or a caravan for semi-permanent shelter at one point. The roof was caved in on one part, and the door was nowhere to be found, but the fire pit in front showed signs of frequent use, as well as the footprints etched into the dust around the shack.

Gemma stopped a few feet from the door, scanning the surrounding area before smacking an elbow against the frame, sending something scurrying away. For a moment, Charon braced for attack, but Gemma simply threw her pack down and dropped into a dirty mattress into the corner.

She patted the mattress beside her, eyes on Charon expectantly.

He was loathe to let down his guard in this unfamiliar place, but it seemed quiet enough and the kid obviously frequented this area. Her easy actions spoke of force of habit, of a loose routine she'd formed on previous trips here. For the first time, Charon found himself wishing he had tried to listen to the gossip at the bar, to hear exactly how long she'd been visiting the place before she finally visited the Ninth Circle.

A series of clicks caught his attention, and he lowered himself to the mattress as he watched her type away furiously at her Pipboy, biting absent-mindedly on the inside of her cheek. With a look of exhaustion, she passed her arm to him, awkwardly cradling her left arm across her body in order to steady the screen. Without thinking, Charon caught her wrist and brough the limb closer to him, eyes focused on the green letters that glowed dimly in the dark.

 _I'm sorry I couldn't find a way to warn you. There was no way to get you away from Ahzrukhal without raising suspicion. I'm doing some "errands" for him collecting caps from people who owe him, but before I tell you anything more, I need to ask. Are you allowed to lie to your employer?_

Her earnest eyes were on him, and he released her arm with a heavy sigh.

"No, I cannot."

She nodded sadly, as if she had expected this answer. Her finger found its way to her lips, and she drew an X across her mouth a soft shake of her head.

"If you cannot tell me, answer me this at least, smoothskin. Whatever you are doing, did you think this plan through?"

He expected a grin, or a shrug, some sort of mischievous sign from her. But to his surprise, Gemma's face sombered and she nodded slowly, eyes fast on his. The motion soothed some of his frayed nerves, showing at least that she took this seriously.

This whole situation was fucked ten ways to Hell. He'd never wanted to see her again, have rather kept her as a pleasant memory than to ever see her be the subject of Ahzrukhal's sneer. It seemed she knew about the contract, but he found himself wanting - _neeeding_ \- to explain the whole situation to her.

"If Ahzrukhal orders me to hurt or kill you, I will have no choice but to do as he asks. Do you understand the nature of my contract? I cannot refuse an order made in combat, and will give my life to protect that of my employer."

The words were hard to force out. Truthfully, it was odd to be talking to this extent after so long of being a mindless attack dog. His voice was rougher than usual, parched as he was from his days in the bar and their long walk through the dusty wastes.

Gemma nodded once more, a look of understanding on her face. She reached out a hand towards him slowly, giving him ample time to duck out of its path before her fingers found his shoulder, and squeezed softly through his worn armor. The contact lasted only a few seconds before she dropped her hand, using her left to cross her heart again and point towards him. Charon couldn't help but tense at the gesture.

"You shouldn't trust me, kid. That's my point."

Her hand went back to her heart, laying flat over her armor for a moment before she motioned outwards again, palm down as though smoothing wrinkles from a sheet, or stroking an animal. Her eyes sparked confidently as her hand dropped gently into her lap, fingers relaxed.

"If you say so, smoothskin."

A firm nod marked the end of their conversation, and she leaned forward to drag her pack closer to her, rummaging around in the innermost pocket before dropping a bottle of water and what appeared to be dried molerat meat into his lap. She leaned against the wall with a clone of his meal in her own lap, and a box of snack cakes between them.

"I'm alright. Save your food," Charon argued, trying to pass the meat back to her. But she frowned and shook her head vigorously, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and pushing his extended hand back into his torso. A quick look to her face told him that there was no point arguing, he'd learned in their brief stint as roommates that there was no point in arguing with her.

They ate in companionable silence, both of their guns in easy reach of their legs, taking turns pulling smashed cakes from the box between them and scraping the mess off the wrappers with their teeth. Charon had barely swallowed the last sip of water from his bottle before she was pressing a new one into his hand, concern written in her face.

"No, kid, I can't drink all your water."

Gemma gave him a look of exasperation and popped the top off the bottle, holding it out once more, gesturing between the bottle and the exposed flesh of his forearm.

"Can't find any water that isn't irradiated?" Charon asked, finally accepting the bottle and swigging it back. He'd missed it in the first bottle, but there was the slight tingle of radiation just as she'd pointed out. There was no sense saving this water, any wanderer with a pot and access to the river could boil a batch of irradiated drinking water.

She gave him a one-shouldered shrug and knocked back another sip of her own water. When there were only a few sips left in the bottle, she pulled a dingy bottle from the side pocket of her pack, snagging out a scrap of bandage before popping a pill into her mouth. A cringe was enough to tell him that the taste was bitter, before she drained her bottle with a grimace. Between the shape of the pill and the obvious bitter taste, he could only assume she had swallowed a Radaway tablet.

After taking a moment to return the rest of the snack cakes and the bottles to her pack, Gemma gave him a warm smile before dropping carefully onto the mattress in full, pressed against the wall with a machete stuck in the crack at her side, ensuring there was plenty of room for him to stretch out beside her. Charon knew her too well to not understand this silent invitation, but he had no intention of resting in an unprotected location. He shifted down the mattress until he was just below her feet, and leaned against the wall, shotgun draped across his lap. His vigilance was rewarded with another exasperated sigh, but the kid still curled her feet closer to her, to leave him more room to rest against the wall. Before long, her breathing evened out and her hand loosened around the hilt of her machete, fingers dropping an inch down its smooth surface.

No stranger to long watches, Charon settled in for a long night, watching the stars through the hole in the roof. A sudden movement at his side caused him to stiffen, but it was only Gemma stretching out in her sleep. Socked feet burrowed under his thigh, leading him to absently wonder when the hell she had taken her shoes off. He almost shoved her legs away, but the contented huff she gave at burying her feet under the warmth of his backside wiped those thoughts from his mind.

"Fine, smoothskin, have it your way," he muttered under his breath, the corners of his lips curling minutely.

The hours passed pleasantly enough. Gemma no longer moved aside from a few small twitches, fingers never fully leaving the hilt of her blade.

At some point after the moon was no longer visible through the hole in the roof or the open doorway, Gemma woke with an obnoxiously long yawn and sat up like some unseen force was slowly pulling her into position. Her eyes were still heavy, but still she pulled her feet out from beneath him with a sheepish look and waved her flat hand over the surface of the bed insistently, pulling out of place with her machete pressed close to her hip.

"I need to keep watch," Charon said, knowing full well what her reply would be.

Gemma fisted one hand on her hip, and used the other to point at the mattress, rising on her knees to crowd him away from the foot of the bed.

A part of Charon still wanted to refuse. He didn't split watches, not trusting his companions enough to keep him safe if danger approached. But he recalled blacking out in a raider camp, and waking up in a doctor's clinic with her at his bedside, miles from where he had fallen. The trust between then spanned long silences spent in her living room, in her sharing food and water with him with relentless insistence, in wandering into Underworld with unknown intent but somehow reassuring him despite the vagueness of her "plan". The peace between them didn't come from a contract, and somehow that made all the difference.

True to character, he shot her a glare as he stretched out on the mattress, feet hanging off the edge in his worn boots. Gemma gave him a second to get comfortable, and then leaned against the wall over his feet, sitting far enough forward to give his legs enough room between her and the wall. Her warmth pressed against his legs felt good against the cold night air, and he could no longer fault her for unconsciously seeking warmth in her sleep.

"Goodnight, kid," he grumbled, turning into the wall with nothing but a fresh-from-the-vault teenager between him and the dangers of the wasteland.

Strangely, it was the best sleep he'd had in weeks.


End file.
